Travel Tales: Experiences and Conversations

Category Archives: Laos

Thanks to the enthusiasm of its 37 cockerels, the remote Hmong village of Ban Phatum, tucked into a wooded pass in the mountains of northern Laos, wakes early.

In the indigo pre-dawn light, children potter sleepily around the village chewing sticky rice cakes, piglets scamper into the undergrowth, and the hens peck around the cooking fires looking for scraps.

D & L stand on a plateau above the village, toothbrushes in hand, swigging water from a bottle, and spitting minty freshness into the undergrowth. If anything, the views are even more astounding at dawn. Yesterday’s blanket of low cloud has returned, snugly wrapping the foot of the mountains from the early morning chill, leaving a hundred black peaks jutting through to greet the sun, whereupon they glow gently, turning hues of pink and gold.

L: It’s so beautiful here. The lifestyle is still so traditional. It’s pure.

Lia: Yes, it’s poor.

L: No – pure. Their culture is uncontaminated.

Lia: I understand. But also, it’s poor. The government have tried to make them move. But they don’t want to go.

D: Why? I mean why should they move?

Lia: The government want all the ethnic people, the hill-tribe people, to move down from the mountains. To be closer to schools and hospitals and markets to sell their produce, to have electricity, water and toilets, to find jobs. Any village smaller than 50 houses is asked to move. To make life better for them.

D: But Ban Phatum said no?

Lia: They said no. They like it here.

L: I can see why. But they’re not hiding.

Lia looks startled.

Lia: Hiding?

L: From the government.

Lia: (sounding polite but confused) No. They are not hiding. Now, we must get ready to leave. We will go at 7.30am.

D steers L back into the grass-walled, palm-thatched house where they had slept.

D: Have you gone mad? What are you talking about? ”Are they hiding?” Why would you even ask that?

L: Because of the war. I read about it.

D: What war?

L: The Vietnam War.

D: But that was forty years ago!

L: I know. But during the war, the Americans were helped by local people in Laos. Those locals were Hmong. They were the ones living in the area. They knew the terrain.

D: Oh.

L: And when the war ended, the communists took over not only in Vietnam but in Laos too. The Hmong had fought against the communists. They were on the wrong side.

D: Ah.

L: So they weren’t the new government’s favourite people. A lot of Hmong fled to the US or over the border into Thailand. Lots more were sent to re-education camps.

D: But surely that’s all water under the bridge by now.

L: Mostly, yes. Several generations on, most Hmong now live peacefully in Laos. Like here in this village. But several thousand of them are still in hiding in the mountains, in areas like this, afraid of reprisals.

D: Hasn’t the government forgotten about them after all this time?

L: It seems not. Apparently they’re still being captured and killed for being bandits and rebels.

D: And are they? Being bandits and rebels I mean.

L: Maybe a few Hmong do still have guns left over from the war, but I’ve seen reports that most of them are unarmed. That they’ve got no reason to fight. That they’re just frightened families unlucky enough to have had fathers or grandfathers who helped the Americans. And that they’re starving – eating roots and bugs – because they have to keep on the move, to stay hidden, so they can’t grow any crops.

D: In that case, why doesn’t anyone do anything?

L: The UN are aware of it but say they haven’t got enough proof to step in. And Thailand is sending thousands of Hmong back to Laos, saying there’s not enough proof to give them asylum.

D: The ones who’ve come back from Thailand – are they OK now?

L: I don’t know. But a lot of them seem to live in huge restricted camps. Which doesn’t sound ideal.

It is nearly 7.30am. D & L emerge from the house with their rucksack, ready to go. Lia looks surprised. He’s obviously not expecting them to be on time. L takes a last look at the village, sad to leave, and sad to compare this seemingly tranquil lifestyle with those of other Hmong, hidden elsewhere in these mountains.

They set out in silence, waving goodbye as they go. D tries to lighten the atmosphere.

D: How long has Ban Phatum been here?

Lia: Since the 1950s. This village is linked to a bigger one down near the road. The village chief lives there.

D: So there’s no chief up here?

Lia: No, but there is a group of elders. I will tell you what happens. Remember that most village people don’t speak Lao, they speak only Hmong. So they choose a chief who is educated and can speak Lao and so can talk with local government. But every village also has the elders, and the chief must listen to them.

D: So the elders look after the village?

Lia: And the shamans.

L: Shamans?

Lia: Yes. The village has two or three shamans who take care of the spirits and any illnesses. The shamans are not chosen – it follows from father to son. If someone in the village is sick, they don’t go to the doctor, they go to the shaman. Only if it is very serious they will go to hospital.

The path contours around the hillsides, climbing gently, heading towards a higher pass. The grass is damp.

Lia: Watch out for leeches.

D: Really? Excellent! I definitely want to be bitten by leeches. Like a proper adventurer.

L: Really? I definitely don’t.

They pause for a drink. The slopes in all directions have long ago been cleared of trees, and now the forest is reclaiming them. Lia waves an arm expansively.

Lia: This area here? All opium garden.

D: Interesting. Until when?

Lia: Maybe 10 – 15 years. All the mountain people used to grow opium poppies. Especially Hmong people. It was very difficult for them when it stopped. They had to learn to grow other things. But they don’t make money like before.

L: Why did it stop?

D: I remember this. It was international pressure. A few countries were given huge aid incentives to put a stop to it – Laos must have been one of them. But one or two of those places now grow opium legally for medicine – selling it to the big pharma companies. Does Laos do this?

Lia: No. We grow no more opium.

They continue on up the narrow trail. At the pass they pause. The way down is drier, on the sunny side of the mountain.

Lia: Check for leeches. I have one – here.

L: Yuck! None. Hurrah.

D: None. Dammit. I so wanted a leech.

It is a long, long descent through the forest, and increasingly steep. They walk slowly, using their trekking poles to lessen the impact on tired knees and feet, and avoid slipping on the greasy mud underfoot. They are overtaken by two women and a girl, stepping sure-footedly down the mountain in rubber sandals, the baskets on their backs loaded high with marrows.

Lia: Heavy! 30 kilos!

A little way on, they stop for a rest. The women are also resting – their marrow baskets on the ground beside them. D walks over to lift one of the baskets. It is as immovable as a rock. He checks if the straps are somehow hooked, and tries again, his face turning red. Lia grins.

Lia: Heavy! 30 kilos!

D: At least!

L takes off her shoes to massage her feet. D feels envious and does the same. There is blood on his sock.

D: A leech! I have a leech!

L: Look – you have three!

D: Hurrah! Let’s get them.

The socks come off. There is nothing to show, except for the blood.

D: Oh. Never mind.

L: Are you happy now?

D: Oh yes. Fantastic. Look, they won’t stop bleeding!

He pauses, the elation in his face fading and turning to concern.

L: Are you alright?

D: D’you think they’ll get infected?

L: I doubt it.

D: Good.

He continues to frown at his feet.

D: D’you think I might bleed to death?

L: No. I really don’t.

The last hour into the valley is tough. They pick their way slowly down the steep, slippery wooded path, step by step. The women with their 30 kg baskets are long gone, chatting happily as they move three times faster in their flapping sandals.

Lia: All the falang (foreigners) fall over on this path.

D: Thanks for that.

Lia: Then they cry. Women, men, they all fall over and cry.

D: We’ll do our best then.

Lia: But today is easy. Not so slippery.

L: Is it. Is it really.

They creep their way down to the valley floor, without falling over. Or crying. Despite being falang. Lia looks a little disappointed. Before they leave the forest, he thrashes about in the undergrowth, emerging with two large palm fronds. As they emerge into bright midday sunshine, he hands them one each to carry over their heads, giving them shade.

L: This is fantastic. It’s perfect. I love my jungle parasol!

D is certain that he looks like a twat, but carries it politely, nevertheless.

The approach to Ban Phayong village is through a lush, flat, well-watered landscape, with the mountains forming forested walls to each side.

They arrive at an immaculately shorn green meadow on which sits a collection of traditional woven-leaf houses with palm thatched roofs. There is electricity to each house. They pass several blocks of public toilets with water points nearby and larger, brightly painted buildings of blockwork with tin roofs. Livestock are tidily contained in pens. Berries are spread out to dry on a grass mat in the sun. It feels a little like an authentically themed holiday park.

They smile and wave at people as they pass, but are mostly ignored.

D: (whispering) It’s the parasol. How can they take me seriously with a massive leaf on my head?

L: (whispering) Don’t diss the leaf. It’s my favourite thing.

They reach the chief’s house, where they are given coffee and herbal tea, and sit under his porch in the shade. A group of French walkers arrives and settles nearby, outside a sleeping hut for guests.

Lia explains the village set up.

Lia: Ban Phayong has 68 families. Hmong people and Khmu people share the village. This is the Hmong side.

L: So where are the Khmu?

Lia: They live separately. On the other side. They have different cultures, different languages. Khmu are Lao Theung – upland Lao, not mountain Lao like Hmong people.

D: So why do they live together?

Lia: It is easier, to have a bigger village. They have electricity, and a school – right in the middle, between the two sides. The lessons are all in Lao. I told you – the government wants the smaller villages to move closer to towns and roads, to make life better for the people.

D: But why put people of different ethnic origins together like this?

Lia: So that they become more Lao – they learn the national Lao language and culture. It is better for everyone.

D: Cultural assimilation. Aren’t they losing their own traditional ways of life though?

Lia: They still live separately. Traditional life is strong. You will see.

Food emerges from the house of the Hmong chief. They tuck into chicken soup, pumpkin, omelette and rice. The French group are also here for lunch. Children in traditional dress parade past slowly, in case anyone might want to photograph them.

Lia: This chief – he is Hmong. He has done many things for the village, for more than 10 years. Everything you see is because of him. The electricity, the toilets, the tourists, the guest house. Many tourists come here, every day, bringing money to the village.

After lunch they walk through the village and admire the chief’s hard work, and his networking, noticing that several of the public facility buildings bear plaques showing sponsorship from overseas. They pass the school, a smart new building standing alone on a hillock in no-man’s land.

They cross an invisible line and continue through the Khmu part of the village. The contrast is striking. Some houses are built of wood, others of bare blockwork with tin roofs. They are raised off the ground, and are smaller than those of their Hmong neighbours. There is no grass, more dust and litter. People sit in their doorways in the shade. They smile and wave and two small boys shout “Hello!” and “Happy New Year!” to them in Lao. Here the authenticity comes with a smile and a stark absence of holiday park trimmings.

D: So much for cultural assimilation. The two halves could be ten miles apart, not ten metres. None of the Hmong chief’s work has crossed the line to the Khmu side at all!

L: You’re right. There’s just two completely separate communities sharing a name and a school.

Lia is silent on the matter but has a story to tell about the Khmu people as they amble through the verdant valley landscape towards the river and the end of their trek.

Lia: After this, you are going to Angkor Wat, right? In Cambodia?

D: Right.

Lia: The greatest temples in the world!

D: Right.

Lia: Built by Lao people!

D: Really? Umm…I’m not sure I’d read that.

Lia: (emphatically) It’s not in the history books. But yes! Lao people. Khmu people.

D: Right.

Lia: And the Plain of Jars – have you read about that?

D: Yes, hundreds of stone jars in the fields in Eastern Laos, thousands of years old, and none of the historians or archaeologists know who left them there or what they were for.

Lia: Ahh. But I know.

D: Really?

Lia: (proudly) Yes. Khmu people.

D: Right. I’m not sure I’d read that either.

Lia: It’s not in the history books. But I will tell you.

***

And so, as they walk, Lia reveals the age-old secrets behind the origins of the Plain of Jars and the founding of Angkor Wat.

Once upon a time, in the first or second centuries, the ancient Khmu people lived happily in Eastern Laos. They made a lot of lao lao rice whisky, which may be why they were so happy. The lao lao was very important to their culture and they drank it whenever they could. Festivals, ceremonies and battles were all celebrated with the drinking of great quantities of lao lao. All this whisky needed to be brewed and stored. It is obvious that the hundreds of mysterious stone vessels spread across what has now become the Plain of Jars, are whisky jars. So that solves that one.

Now, the first king of the Khmu people was a strong and powerful king called Khun Jung. The fame of his strength spread far and wide and lots of his people wished that they could be as strong as him. The people thought that if they could only eat a little bit of the king, they would gain his strength. Khun Jung was no fool, and he told his people that if they killed and ate him they would become weak, not strong. He told them that they too could become strong, by following him and learning from him. This worked for a while, but eventually the people killed him, popped a skewer into his bottom and out of his mouth, barbecued him, and had themselves a feast. However, eating Khun Jung did not make the Khmu people strong after all. Instead it made them argue and fight amongst themselves for three hundred years, until in the 5th century, some of them split off, headed 500 miles south to Champasak in southern Laos, and founded the magnificent temple of Wat Phu. Here they settled, but continued to argue and fight amongst themselves for a further six hundred years, until in the 11th century, some of them split off again, and headed 300 miles south west. Here they settled and founded the even more magnificent temples of Angkor Wat. Which is over the border in Cambodia. Where the people are Khmer. And the language to this day is Khmer. Khmer – Khmu. D’you see? The original Cambodians and builders of Angkor were Khmu people. Lao people.

And so concludes the revelation that the greatest temple complex in the world, Angkor Wat, in Cambodia, was in fact built by the Lao. According to Lia. But it’s not in the history books.

Lia: And every house has a spirit. This is important. When we arrive at the village, you must not go inside any home unless you are invited. You could bring bad spirits from the forest into the house and make people ill.

L: Err….right. No. Absolutely.

D & L meet their guide, Lia, early that morning, and set off on their two day hike into the forested mountains of northern Laos. They are to spend the night in a remote Hmong village. Lia briefs them as they walk.

Lia: Hmong people are not Buddhist. Only half the Lao people are Buddhist. The Hmong people believe in spirits. And ancestor worship.

They pass a large watermelon plantation and pick their way across dry rice paddies, not yet planted for the coming season. They cross a stream and the path starts climbing through woodland and patches of rubber plantation. Lia continues his briefing.

Lia: In the village, they do not speak Lao. Only Hmong.

D: Oh. Will that be tricky? Do you speak Hmong?

Lia: Yes. My father – he was Hmong. When I was fifteen he sent me to the mountains to learn the Hmong language and culture – his culture.

L: Are the two languages similar?

Lia. Not at all. Completely different. I’ll teach you. To say “hello” – in Lao is sabaidee, but in Hmong is niaojong. To say…

They hear voices above them in the forest. They are climbing steeply through the trees on a narrow path and the cloud has rolled in leaving everything blurred and dripping. Lia stops talking and listens. A dog barks.

Lia: Hunters.

They catch up with a group of five men and a pack of dogs. The men each have a gun. L, D and Lia join them and for a while they all walk together, tripping over the dogs who weave up and down the procession and get under everyone’s feet. The men chat in sing-song lilting tones, musical swoops and swings of voice impossible to emulate in English.

Lia: Hmong people. The men hunt for food, and also build village houses. The women look after the children and animals, and gather firewood for cooking. You will see.

D: (whispering) Have you noticed their guns?

L: (whispering) So? They’re hunters.

D: (whispering) But have you actually looked at them?

L: (who wouldn’t know a Colt from a Kalashnikov) ????

D later explains that he has spotted an ancient World War II military rifle, several homemade muskets fashioned from a length of tube and a trigger mechanism, and an AK47 complete with bayonet. He then further explains that no, these are all quite different to anything one might see shooting pheasants in the Cotswolds.

L: What are they hunting?

Lia: (looking a bit shifty) Anything.

L: But what? Big, small, animals, birds, what sort of thing?

Lia: Anything they can eat.

They reach a clearing and pause for a drink, and the hunters, the dogs and the sing-song voices all melt away into the mist. From now the path is along a bare ridge, still climbing steeply. Lia strips a handful of leaves from a shrub and pops one in his mouth. He offers them around. They taste lemony.

Lia: Sourleaf. Good, huh?

They nod, chewing.

L: So there are three main ethnic groups in Laos, right?

Lia: Yes.

L looks pleased with herself.

Lia: And no.

L: Oh.

Lia: The government says 49. Others say 134.

D: You weren’t far out.

L: Shut up.

Lia: But yes, there are three main groups. You can see them on the money – the 1000 kip notes.

D fumbles in his pockets and finds a note. They study the three women pictured in traditional dress.

D: So who are they?

Lia: They live in different areas. In the valleys, the hills or the mountains.

He points to the woman on the left.

Lia: This is Lao Loum – lowland Lao. They live in the river valleys and grow wet rice. More than half the population are Lao Loum. They speak the national language – Lao – and follow the national religion – Buddhism.

He points to the right.

Lia: Lao Thoeng – upland Lao. They are maybe one quarter of the population and they live on the hill slopes. They are very poor – when they have no money they barter.

Lastly he points to the middle of the three women.

Lia: And this is Lao Soung – mountain Lao. Hmong people are the largest group of Lao Soung. They grow corn and dry rice, and keep animals to sell. When we arrive at the village you will see.

The ridge flattens and they emerge onto an orange dirt road. They are now above the cloud, in bright sunshine under a vivid blue sky.

Lia: The village. Ban Phatum.

They look around, but see nothing but forest and the track leading away towards a wooded pass. They follow the track and suddenly come upon fencing and a collection of small buildings. The village is in an idyllic setting, nestled into the pass, fringed by areas of cleared meadow beyond which the wooded mountain rises protectively above. The temperature a perfect mid-20s, the air is clear and the colours seem richer than before – the glowing orange of the earth, the vibrant green of the woods and the cerulean blue of the sky.

In the road a cluster of boys are playing a type of boules with spinning tops. Lia greets them and stops to join in. A carved-wood cylinder, sharpened to a point at one end, is set spinning on its point as a target. Lia takes another, winds a line of string around it and then launches it towards the target. His technique is spot on, his top hits point down and spins across the ground, but he is miles out. The boys laugh in delight.

Lia nods, satisfied. Honour is served. D&L look impressed. They walk on through the village. A group of women are squatting in the shade of a tree, chatting softly and chopping vegetables. Next to them several dogs lie panting and piglets and hens hunt for treasure in the dust.

D: (whispering) What’s “hello” again?

L: (whispering) Something to do with a game. Mah-jong. And a cat. Miao-jong. With an N. Niao-jong I think.

D smiles as he passes. One or two smile hesitantly back.

D: Niao-jong!

The women giggle.

It is Lia’s turn to look impressed.

The village spreads up both sides of the pass. Single room dwellings of wood and bamboo and palm thatch contain fourteen families and a menagerie of livestock. About half of the houses have corrugated tin roofs but all other building materials have come straight from the forest. They head to the far upper edge of the village, and stop.

Lia: Here is the house. You rest and I will make lunch.

He pauses.

Lia: And the toilet? Over there.

He waves vaguely at the undergrowth beyond the edge of the village. L looks for a latrine or outhouse building but sees nothing.

L: Where exactly?

Lia: Anywhere. In the forest. But don’t go too far.

L: Oh. Of course. Right. Because of the bombs?

Lia looks puzzled, then smiles.

Lia: No, the land here has been cleared. It is safe. There are no bombs.

They wonder what else is out there, but Lia doesn’t elaborate.

They enter their new home. Under a covered porch two small children sit on tiny stools around a fire in the middle of the earth floor. Nevin is five, but tiny, and his sister Ladah is two. L & D greet their mother, who is their host. She nods shyly at them.

L smiles at the children and waves.

L: Niao-jong!

Nevin stares solemnly at L, stands up, walks over to his sister and wallops her hard over the head. Ladah opens her mouth and howls. Their mother scoops Ladah into her lap, and scolds Nevin. Nevin howls too. L flees indoors to where D is unpacking.

D: Was that you? What did you do to them?

L: Nothing! I promise!

Their house has a spotlessly swept earth floor, split-bamboo walls and a palm thatch roof. It is cool and airy. A raised bamboo platform covers two sides. This is where they will sleep. L lies back. Despite the absence of a mattress it is surprisingly comfortable. Through the paper-thin wall a cockerel crows loudly. It is roosting under the eaves of their hut. Dangling from the ceiling they notice, to their surprise, a lightbulb.

Lia calls them for lunch. On a surface of banana leaves he has laid out cold pork & cauliflower, sticky rice, and a smoky aubergine dip. They are told to eat with their hands – picking up mouthfuls of pork and cauliflower, pinching sticky rice into balls and dipping it into the sauce. It is delicious. Once they have eaten their fill, the family tuck in to the rest.

L: There’s a lightbulb. So the village has electricity?

Lia: A little. Down in the valley is a waterfall which makes electricity. Enough for some of the people to have a light in the evening. You will see.

After lunch they are dispatched for a walk. Shal is an unsmiling teenager with a machete. He speaks only Hmong. They smile at him. He regards them blankly, then turns and walks off. They follow. Three smaller boys, aged about ten, tag along for the ride, each wielding a balloon on a stick. One by one, along the way, as they swipe at the undergrowth, they pop their balloons. They grin, shrug and carry on. One of them grazes continually, munching fistfuls of sourleaf from the shrubs that he passes.

The views are glorious – wooded peaks, patchworks of upland meadows and a sea of cloud blanketing them from the rest of the world below. In the fold of a valley lies another little village, spreading down the slope like a landslip. The boys spot figures on the opposite hillside, as tiny as beetles, maybe 500 metres away as the crow flies. They call across and a long conversation ensues, phrases floating to and fro, bouncing from one hill to another, as natural as a phone call, with no need for technology.

On the way back the boys spot a small fallen tree, one end about a foot off the ground. They stand on it, and it moves. Shal joins the younger three, straddling the trunk, and the four of them bounce, helpless with laughter. D & L look on, laughing with them, enjoying their delight.

L: We’re a long way away from crisps and computer games.

***

Back at the village, Lia is killing a cockerel.

D: Oh dear, I hope that’s not the one that lives in our roof.

They leave him to it, and wander around the village. Everywhere there are children and dogs and chickens and pigs and piglets and goats and cows roaming free. Bamboo fences separate the village from the edge of the forest. Despite all the livestock, there are no flies, and almost no waste.

D: Well, for a start, with no shops there’s no packaging. Or carrier bags. That helps.

They watch Lia hurl a bowl of scraps out of a doorway. Instantly it is hoovered up by piglets and hens.

L: And there goes your food waste. But there’s no animal mess either. Or human for that matter. All these people. All this livestock. And yet it’s remarkably clean.

D eyes up the piglets, snuffling their way eagerly around the village and into the undergrowth beyond.

D: Pigs are omnivorous. Probably best not to think about it.

Children are gathering bundles of grass to make into brooms. Toddlers roam in and out of houses, singly or in groups, some clothed and others naked, clutching sticky rice cakes which they nibble on.

D & L smile and wave.

D: Mah-jong! I mean niao-jong!

The kids grin and wave back.

A woman is weaving palm leaves to make sections of roof. She laughs and blushes with pleasure as they admire her work. Another woman and her daughters return from the fields with baskets bulging with marrows.

L: Wow – beautiful!

D: And heavy.

The girls nod shyly as they pass.

At the edge of the village, they find the community’s only water source. A skilfully crafted bamboo aqueduct channels water from a mountain spring to the edge of the village in a constant flow, allowing people to wash, do laundry and gather water for their homes. They wander back through a whirl of children and puppies chasing a blue balloon.

On the hillside behind their hut, beyond the edge of the village, is a large flat clearing. From here, they have an awesome 180 degree panorama of peaks spread out at their feet and of the sun sinking behind the mountains, washing their own hilltop in gold. It is blissfully peaceful and utterly stunning. They stand there gawping and wearing out their camera. There is a chuckle.

Small child: Falang. Oh!

Another chuckle.

Smaller child: Falang. Oh!

Two little boys, aged maybe three or four, are standing on the other side of the clearing, laughing at them. Falang means “foreigner” in Lao, and obviously also in Hmong.

Boys: Falang – oh!

L: Niao-jong!

She waves. They edge nearer, grinning and laughing. The smaller child is naked and holding a red balloon. Both are barefoot, oblivious to the sharp stony ground.

Boys: Falang – oh!

L: Niao-jong!

They dart nearer. L reaches out, but they dart back. She folds her arms and they dart forward.

Boys: Falang – oh!

L: Niao-jong!

Boys: Falang – oh! Falang – oh! Falang – oh! Falang – oh!

They run circles around her, chanting and laughing. L laughs with them, whirling within their circle but keeping her distance, frightened of frightening them.

D: Whatever are you doing?

L: I don’t know. I’m terrified!

D: What of? They’re children.

L: Exactly!

Boys: Falang – oh! Falang – oh! Falang – oh! Falang – oh!

At dusk they return to their home, add extra layers of clothing, and join Lia around the fire under the porch. The whole village smells aromatically of woodsmoke. There is the soft chatter of conversations around cooking fires, the wail of an overtired child, and the sound of a hundred hens.

L: There are lots of cockerels, aren’t there? About thirty seven, I’d guess.

D: One less than earlier.

He nods at the fire, over which a plucked chicken is spread out flat and cooking. Lia rolls his eyes.

Lia: It’s the only reason I don’t like staying here. I can’t sleep. You will see. Three, four o’clock in the morning – they start! Then all the village wakes up, talking and making a noise. It’s terrible!

They watch the cockerels stalking around, bossing their hens. Nearby a young man is stroking and teasing and hand-feeding a white cockerel with a long tail.

D: What’s going on there? That one looks quite different.

Lia: A fighting rooster. He’s very special.

There is a loud crow from the eaves of their house.

L: Thank goodness. He’s still alive.

Lia: And that one, he’s special too. A hunting rooster.

A gaggle of little girls sidle up to L and stand beside her. They have solemn pretty faces and are dressed in traditional Lao wrap-around skirts, topped and tailed by western style tops and leggings. One has her little brother strapped to her back, legs dangling.

D: That’s sweet. They want to be your friend.

L: I know. What shall I do?

D: How should I know? Be nice.

L smiles at them. They stare seriously back at her. She gets out her camera and photographs a hen, pecking at their feet. She shows them the photo. They smile. She points the camera at them – takes a photo. Shows them. They giggle and point at the image, call their friends over and bossily arrange themselves into a line to be photographed again.

L: There are plenty of children here.

Lia: (sighing) Hmong people don’t understand birth control. The women have six or eight children. The man can have several wives. And they do not have to marry to be together. In the valleys some Lao Loum think badly about the Hmong because of this. The lowland Lao are very strict – no sex before marriage. Anyway. All these things make a lot of kids that need food and clothes.

L: Do they go to school?

Lia: Some. Now the track is here, it is easier. Until two years ago, the only way to the valley was the way we walked today. But now they can arrive at the main road in one hour, on a motorbike.

They have noticed that a few of the young men in the village have mopeds.

L: Do they go every day?

Lia: No – it’s too far. They stay at school for the week, from Sunday to Friday. But they have to bring their own food and uniform and books and pens and paper. It’s not easy.

L: We want to help. We brought some money. To help pay for the kids to go to school. Is that the right thing to do?

Lia: Money is good. Or clothes – they always need clothes and shoes. Not toys though – nothing plastic. The people here don’t understand about rubbish. Last week a visitor gave them balloons – you can see – the kids are very happy, but now there are are pieces of rubber all over the village.

They sit around the fire in the dark. Puppies and hens tiptoe close to the embers. Lia brings out supper. There is barbecued chicken, boiled marrow, chicken and marrow soup, and rice.

D: Do people eat meat every day here?

Lia: No. Only when the hunters bring animals. Mostly they eat rice. And vegetables.

L: But all this livestock? There are so many hens and pigs. And cows and goats.

Lia: Hmong people don’t eat these animals – they sell them. Except for the spirit sacrifices.

L: The…..?

Lia: At a ceremony, they will kill an animal. The spirits take the blood, and after that, the people can eat the body.

By 8pm it is silent, and very dark. There is no moon, but a million stars glow brightly in the utter absence of light pollution. The village is in blackness, interiors lit only by cooking fires and half a dozen dim light bulbs, and outside the occasional bobbing of a torch at the edge of the forest – heading to the loo before bed.

D: It’s so peaceful. No parties?

Lia: (laughing) Hmong people are quiet people. They don’t listen to music, only their own traditional music, and they don’t drink alcohol. Not even lao-lao rice whisky.

On their bamboo platform, they find a mosquito tent has been set up, two quilts and two pillows. They snuggle down, and sleep soundly, aware only of their hipbones as they turn over.

***

D: Holy crap! What’s the time?

L: 3.47am.

The cockerels have started. All 37 of them. Including the one in their eaves.

L: No. The other signs. “Dangerous.” “Unexploded bombs still in this area”. “One of the most bombed areas in Laos.”

D: Oh. Those signs.

L: Yes.

D: Right.

L: Yes.

D: Well come on then! It also says “Don’t get off the path.” So we won’t. We’ll be fine! He sets cheerfully off between the bamboo-fenced vegetable plots, and is soon out of sight behind a clump of banana trees.

***

They arrive in Nong Khiaw the previous day, after a four hour minibus ride on quiet, mostly good roads sprinkled with a few potholes of the size that you drive into, and then out of again. The little village straddles the Nam Ou River and the scenery is so magnificent that they just want to choke and fall over.

L: It’s too much. I can’t cope. I can’t fit it all into my eyes!

They walk along the riverbank to find their hotel. They have decided to splash out on the best place in town, at a whopping USD$50/night, and have nervously paid in advance. At the Nong Khiaw Riverside they are given glasses of iced lemongrass & ginger tea, and a room key. L opens the door to their room.

L: Holy moly!

D: What? Is it awful?

L: it’s another basket. D’you think you can you bear it?

Their bungalow stands on stilts on the riverbank. The walls and ceiling are of woven leaf matting, and the floor is of wood. The room is stylishly decorated, has a four poster bed and smells sweetly of straw. A huge set of French doors fills one wall and leads to a wooden balcony looking over the river. Opposite, a mountain juts out of the water and straight up to touch the sky 1100 metres above. It is awesomely beautiful.

D: I think I can bear it.

They spend the rest of the day on the balcony. D studies the guidebook while L gawps and takes photos of the view.

D: What shall we do?

L: (not listening) Astonishing. Smile please.

D: We could kayak.

L: (not listening) So gorgeous. Actually, don’t smile.

D: Or go for a bike ride.

L: (not listening) Just fantastic. Maybe you look better from the back.

D: Or a walk.

L: (not listening) Extraordinary. Or not in the photo at all.

***

The narrow path climbs steeply through the forest, ducking under madly spiralling vines. They manage not to step on any bombs. At the top, they are in thick cloud, swirling around them. There is nothing whatsoever to see.

L: Oh no.

D: Just wait.

L: All this way up….

D: Just wait.

They wait, resting in the bamboo shelter perched on top of the mountain.

D: About the bombs.

L: Yes.

D: You’ve been Googling.

L: I have.

D: So who were Laos at war with when the bombs were dropped?

L: Nobody really. It was during the Vietnam War, in which officially Laos was neutral.

D: Officially?

L: Well, some of them were helping out a bit.

D: Who were they helping?

L: The CIA. Is the cloud clearing yet?

D: What? No. Did you say CIA?

L: Yup. Hold on a minute. What d’you know about the Vietnam War?

D: Blimey. In a nutshell? Here goes. Vietnam. Long thin country, running north to south. Line across the middle. North of the line is North Vietnam, which is communist. South of the line is South Vietnam which is not communist and is supported by the US. North Vietnam want to take South Vietnam and turn it communist. The US want very badly to stop them so that communism doesn’t spread.

L: Right. So the communist North Vietnamese had a network of vital supply routes through the jungle known as the Ho Chi Minh Trail. To move their equipment and soldiers down south to fight the Americans and South Vietnamese.

D: I’ve heard of the Ho Chi Minh Trail.

L: Well, a lot of the Trail was actually over the border, in Laos, and not in Vietnam at all. The US was keen to shut it down, and they asked Laos for help. So local people living in the mountains near the border were trained up by the CIA to help the Americans disrupt movement along the Ho Chi Minh trail, rescue any US airmen shot down, and protect an important radar base.

D: OK. But who dropped all the bombs on Laos?

L: The Americans. Any gaps in the cloud?

D: Not yet. What d’you mean, the Americans? You’ve just said Laos was helping them!

L: I know, but the US were freaking out about the potential spread of communism. They did everything they could to stop it, including bombing the hell out of both the Ho Chi Minh Trail and anywhere else in Laos they thought might have a communist in it. It was supposed to be a secret, because of Laos being a neutral country. It’s known as the Secret War.

D: When was this?

L: 1964-73. The US dropped over 2 million tonnes of bombs. Equivalent to a planeload every 8 minutes, 24 hours a day, for 9 years. Making Laos the most heavily bombed country in history.

D: God Almighty! Or Buddha.

L: Quite.

D: It must have been the world’s worst kept secret. There are gaps though.

L: In my facts?

D: Undoubtedly. But also in the cloud.

The sun is melting the white layers into wisps to reveal the vivid blue sky behind. The signs were right – they have 360 degree views of the most bombed, and surely one of the most beautiful, countries in the world. There is space all around them, into which they feel they could fly. On every horizon lush green mountain ridges jut and soar, cut through by fertile valleys, rice paddies, and the lazy curves of the coffee-coloured Nam Ou River, laid out below their feet.

L tries to speak, but nothing comes out.

L: I’ve got no superlatives left. I used them all up yesterday.

D doesn’t need words. Just looking is making his soul sing.

***

On the way back down they are equally careful not to step off the path.

L: Apparently 30% of the bombs didn’t explode. That’s 80 million bombs. Even now people get killed by them every year. And it stops them being able to farm their land safely. Something like 25% of villages in Laos are still unsafe.

D: Are they being cleared up?

L: Yes, but it’s the most unimaginably enormous task. The US have spent over $100 million in Laos over the last 20 years on unexploded ordnance (UXO) clearance, and there are a bunch of agencies and local teams out here doing nothing else, but it barely scratches the surface. Hold on, I’ve got a quote somewhere.

She stops, and taps her phone.

L: Here. So, Obama has just pledged another $90 million for UXO clearance over the next 3 years. But even that’s not nearly enough. A Mines Advisory Group director reacted to the news by saying: “Before the President’s announcement I feared that the UXO operation in Laos would take hundreds of years. Now I am optimistic this can be reduced to decades.”

D: Decades.

L: Decades.

***

They cycle on out into the countryside.

L: You find it. I’ll tell you about it.

D stops on a corner and wheels his bike onto the gravel verge.

D: We’re here. Tham Pha Thok.

L: Where? I can’t see it.

D: I think that’s sort of the point.

He leads the way across a stream and through a meadow, heading straight for a rocky mountain rising sheer out of the flat valley.

D: There.

L: No. Can’t see a thing.

D: You’re not looking at it properly.

They are approached by three small boys, who take charge. In impressive English they introduce themselves as Lee, Bia and Guan and announce that they are 10 years old. Lee has a head torch. He leads the way up a steep flight of stairs and into a large cave, 30 metres above the ground. It consists of a wide gallery stretching back several hundred metres, with smaller caverns opening off it, several of them striped with natural light chinking in from fissures in the cliff-side.

L: This was lived in by villagers, and also by a lot of the provincial government, during all those years of bombing. You can almost imagine it, can’t you? It’s a good safe spot – completely invisible from the outside, and close to a stream.

The boys head deeper in and illuminate various pitch-black room-sized dug-outs to the sides. One area is labelled “Governor”, and another “Provisional Government Chairman”.

D: Tricky place to have an office.

Lee, Bia and Guan scamper back down the steps, but their tour isn’t over. They are beckoned around the foot of the cliff on a tiny overgrown path. They reach the entrance to another, much smaller cave, and clamber between boulders, squeezing through a crack in the rocks. They look around the small space.

L: Blimey. This was where the region’s main bank was based. For six years!

Before they leave, D takes on the role of banker, and reaches into his wallet to pay the diminutive guides. He pulls out a note and starts to hand it over. The boys’ eyes light up.

D: Hang on, that’s got too many noughts on it!

It disappears swiftly back into his wallet, and is replaced by three more, each with one less zero. One for each boy. They stare at him solemnly for quite some time, waiting for the larger note to reappear. It doesn’t. They shrug their shoulders and dart away down the footpath into the woods.

***

The village school is putting on a Cultural Evening. They cycle there at dusk, and are earnestly led around the back of the school building to a stage area by several boys in traditional dress. Half a dozen performances are introduced by two tiny people, one girl and one boy. They take turns. One reads a long introduction in Lao from the laminated sheet they are clutching. The other then frowns and studies the sheet carefully before announcing in English “And now a song. Please enjoy.” It seems that whatever the Lao description of the different performances might be, the English translation is the same. Each time, the foreign audience wait eagerly to be told what is coming. “And now a song. Please enjoy.”

The performances are in fact dances, not songs. The children are wearing traditional clothing representing different ethnic groups. Sometimes a group of girls will dance, and sometimes they dance in boy-girl pairs, which makes them all giggle and blush. Their bare feet pat softly on the floor and they hold themselves gracefully upright. Most of the dancing is done by their hands, twisting at the wrist, palm up, palm down. It is beautifully elegant, dignified and poised.

***

The Nam Ou River and surrounding scenery is even more spectacular from a kayak. The water is smooth and slow-flowing. Their guide is called Big. As they paddle gently down the river, side by side, he tells them he used to be a monk.

L: Gosh – how long for?

Big: 6 years. From 12 to 18. They put me through secondary school. It’s a good education. But it’s not a life for me.

L: No?

Big: No. One day I met a friend in the street. He was wearing a fine suit. So I stopped being a monk.

L: Because of the suit?

Big: Of course! So that I too could enjoy clothes and music and food and girls. At college.

He tells us that his family come from a hill village four hours from here.

Big: It is very remote. My village only got electricity last year.

He points towards the sandy shore. Vegetables grow in neat rows on the banks and several small boats are moored up. Glimpsed through the trees there are houses with woven-leaf walls and palm-thatch roofs. Big explains aspects of village life.

Big: See? This village too, has got electricity now. Just last year. Like my village.

Big: The firewood there stacked up. Used for cooking.

Big: Rice mats. All the rice is laid out to dry in the sun. Before the husks come off.

Big: They keep bees, for honey. In those hollowed out tree trunks on the side of that house. See?

Big: The water point. All the village get their water from this place. For washing, for laundry, for cooking, for drinking.

L: And for toilets?

Big laughs.

Big: No. For that they have the forest.

They drift on downstream into the setting sun. Water buffalo bask on the banks and wallow in the shallows. A family drive their cattle and pigs to down to the shore to drink in the cool of the late afternoon. Three teenage girls run down a beach and into the water, whooping and splashing, ducking like dolphins, fully clothed. The sun drops lower. The river glitters silver. The mountains line up in layers, from greys to blues to black.

L: “The Vietnamese plant the rice, the Cambodians tend the rice, and the Lao listen to it grow.” According to a Frenchman. According to the guide book.

D: Beautiful. How does that answer my question?

L: You asked what Laos is like. That’s your answer. It’s really laid back. Avoiding stress is a national past-time.

D looks out of the plane window at the unending ridges of forested mountains below, ribboned with occasional silvery rivers and orange dirt tracks.

D: it’s all so empty. Where are all the houses and towns and things?

L: There aren’t very many. It’s about the same size as the UK but only has 10% of the people.

D ponders this.

D: Wait a minute. What have the French got to do with it?

L: They were in charge for a bit. They went home in the 1950s, leaving behind some nice buildings and the recipe for a decent baguette.

***

Their arrival at Luang Prabang airport is, predictably, stress free. They drift calmly through the visa queue and out to an efficient booth organising taxis at reasonable prices. D spots a cashpoint in the small terminal building. He returns, looking very pleased with himself.

D: (whispering) I’m a millionaire!

Twenty minutes later, they are stepping out of their flip-flops at the foot of the stairs leading to the Mekong Charm Guesthouse. They are welcomed warmly with watermelon juice, then led barefoot across squeaky varnished wood flooring to their first-floor room – a gleaming dark-wood box with windows on two sides and a balcony.

L: It’s charming! And we can see the Mekong!

D: Don’t sound so surprised. Surely the clue’s in the name.

L: Of course, but you never know how much artistic licence has been sprinkled on a name.

They are here for 4 nights and love everything about it. The bed is huge and comfortable, the room so eccentrically dark they find clothes from the wardrobe with a torch, and the shower, with luxury shower head, tremendous pressure and masses of hot water, is designed to wash the entire bathroom floor before draining in the opposite corner, under the sink.

They sit on their balcony in the golden light of the afternoon sun with cans of Beer Lao. The temperature is perfect, somewhere in the mid 20s. Just across the road, beyond the palm trees, the Mekong River slips by silently, fast-moving and coffee-coloured.

L: (tapping her phone) It’s one of the great rivers of the world. 12th largest, it says here. Feeds millions of people, not just in Laos but from China to Thailand, Cambodia and Vietnam.

D: Must be quite useful for transportation too, especially here where the roads are famously bad. Let’s do a boat trip.

They watch a long narrow passenger boat careening sideways down the river, battling the current as it struggles to turn around.

L: (doubtfully) Let’s.

***

Luang Prabang is seriously low key. There are no high rise buildings – from above, the French colonial architecture seems to just melt back into the surrounding jungle. There are lots of tourists, of the quiet, earnest sort.

L: I keep thinking I recognise people. They all look as though they could be friends of our parents.

D: I know just what you mean.

Much of the town is stretched along a tongue of land between two rivers – the Mekong on one side and the smaller Nam Khan on the other. After dark, the riverside streets are peaceful and empty of vehicles. This is when Sisavangvong Road comes gently to life. Running down the centre of the tongue, it has restaurants and shops and every evening a huge outdoor market selling brightly coloured textiles, crafts and good quality souvenirs. Further on there is street food – aromatic grilled meats seasoned with lemongrass, freshly pressed fruit juices and smoothies, and melt-in-the-mouth coconut pancakes served in little boats of banana-leaves. People stroll, chat, shop and eat. There is no traffic and no loud music.

***

D: Oh God. More wats?

L: Oh Buddha.

D: What?

L: Oh Buddha. Not God.

D: Whatever.

L: One wat.

D: One what?

L: One wat. We’ll just visit one wat. You’ll love it.

They set off, watching a group of orange-robed monks pass by. They are a common sight in the streets of Luang Prabang.

D: Don’t touch one.

L: Don’t be weird! I wasn’t going to touch one!

D: I’m just saying. Don’t. it’s not allowed.

L: People aren’t allowed to touch monks?

D: Women. Women aren’t allowed to touch monks.

L: Right. I’ll bear that in mind. Thanks for that. Really.

D: They collect alms at dawn. People give them rice and vegetables. Not money. It’s how they survive. I saw them on my run this morning. Look though – some of them are just kids.

L: Most Lao boys become a Buddhist monk for a time, I think. Often it’s the only affordable way for them to get a decent education. Of course, even in the monasteries the government makes sure everything’s taught to proper Marxist principles.

D: What?

L: It’s communist. Laos, I mean.

D: It doesn’t feel very communist, does it?

L: I don’t know what communist should feel like. But it’s been that way since the end of the Vietnam War in 1975. Same time as Cambodia and Vietnam. I’ve just been reading about it. I’m a political encyclopaedia. Ask me anything. But you’d better be quick – I’ll have forgotten it all again by tomorrow.

D: Is communism working here?

L: I gather they’ve eased up a lot since the beginning. To start with, to get everything under control, they quickly restricted freedom of speech and group gatherings and nationalised the economy. People who weren’t on board were sent to “re-education camps” where conditions were really hard. Lots of people who didn’t want to live under communist rule fled the country – about 10% of the population in total. Including pretty much all of the educated classes.

D: If there was no-one left with an education, wasn’t that a bit of a setback for the country’s development?

L: Yes. And the sums didn’t add up. So 4 years later, people were allowed to start farming their own land again, instead of just working for government cooperatives. And private enterprise was permitted.

D: Did things pick up?

L: Not enough. But in the mid 80s they took a leaf out of China’s book, opening up the economy to the rest of the world, but still keeping a tight hold on political power.

D: So still a one party dictatorship?

L: Yes, but now with inward foreign investment. China has come in and built roads, dams, and plantations to grow food and timber to take home. But Laos is still really poor. Something like three quarters of the population are subsistence farmers surviving on about $2 a day. The country’s still heavily dependent on foreign aid.

***

Wat Xieng Thong has beautiful tiered roofs sweeping close to the ground, and gigantic green-jewelled glass lotus buds each side of the entrance steps. They walk straight past.

L: We’ll start with the garage.

They stop in front of a smaller temple clad entirely in gold. Elaborate decorations and scenes are worked into the façade. They shade their eyes, dazzled by the glare of the sun bouncing off the glittering surface.

L: Behold. The garage.

Inside it is just as ornate. The red walls are covered in technicolour mirror-shard mosaics, and a platoon of slender Buddhas stand to attention at the back of the room. L is entranced.

D: Never mind all that. What on earth is this?

The rest of the temple is filled with a golden chariot. Seven golden nagas rear up, waving bright red tongues. Behind them on the carriage are several towering golden urns.

L: They’re funeral urns. For Lao royalty.

D: Are there any?

L: Any what?

D: Any royalty.

L: Not any more. Royalty and communism aren’t much of a natural match.

D: No. I see that.

L: When the Marxist government took over in ’75, they arrested the royal family.

D: Oh.

L: But then they were worried that the royals would escape from house arrest and lead a resistance.

D: Right.

L: So the king, queen and crown prince were sent off to re-education camps where they worked in the fields. Until they eventually died. Probably of malnutrition or malaria. Nobody much knows.

D: That seems like an ignominious end to an era.

L: I don’t know what that means. But probably.

D: How long had there been an established Lao royal family – until then?

L: 650 years.

They wander through the grounds. Several of the smaller temples, and the rear wall of the main temple, are decorated with more mosaic scenes of vivid coloured glass. There are armies and elephants, temples and trees, owls and peacocks. The designs are both simple and complex and all of them beautiful.

The following day they find more of these stunning coloured glass mosaics in the public rooms of the Royal Palace, in stark contrast to the adjoining austere private quarters of the last royal family, also on display, and in use until their arrest.

***

They do the done thing. Phu Si is a stand-alone hummock a hundred metres high, right in the middle of town. It’s a must at sunset. They start in good time, climbing the 329 steps to the top. Plenty of others have the same idea. Women are selling tiny birds in tiny cages – one bird to a cage.

L: Poor things. To eat?

D: To set free at the top.

On the summit is a small temple and a concrete platform from which to admire the views. And approximately 500 people. It is so crammed that they literally cannot move. A forest of selfie-sticks sprouts above the crowd. Of all those here for the sunset, 90% cannot see a thing.

D: Bloody hell! Retreat! Retreat!

He squeezes a sweaty path through to the steps on the other side of the platform, and they make their escape back down. During the descent they pass several hundred more people going up.

There is still time. A rickety bamboo footbridge bridge crosses the river from the tip of the town’s tongue to the overgrown bank beyond. This is the mouth of the Nam Khan, where it joins the mighty Mekong. On the far side there is no-one, apart from a woman sitting on a bamboo platform. Beside her, miraculously, is a cool-box.

D: Sabaidee. Two Beer Lao please.

They take the cans to the smooth rocks jutting out into the mouth of the river. Downstream the evening sun is glinting off the river. On the spit of sand opposite, kids skim stones and a couple are posing for wedding photos. Half a dozen long narrow passenger boats are dawdling out on the Mekong, full of camera-poised passengers, waiting for sunset. The water turns golden, the land turns black. It couldn’t be any more lovely.

***

At breakfast, D gets up and crosses the room to get more coffee.

They are told that the fresh pineapple juice is off the menu. There has been a power cut.

D starts looking uncomfortable. Eventually he speaks.

D: (whispering) I think it was me.

L: What was you?

D: (whispering) Shush! Me that broke the electricity.

L: How was it you?

D: (whispering) I lifted the lid on the coffee machine.

***

They find a boatman to take them across the Mekong and upstream a little way. The sloping river banks are neatly planted with lush green vegetable gardens.

D: All these plots are seasonal. In a few months’ time they’ll be underwater.

L: Does the river level really change that much?

D: Apparently it can rise 10 metres or more during the rainy season. And when it falls again, it leaves behind this amazingly rich silt. Great for growing stuff.

The boatman picks a cautious route to the far shore, avoiding the constantly shifting mudbanks. They disembark and climb to the top of a flight of rough steps.

D: You said one!

L: I said one what?

D: Precisely.

L: One what?

D: Yes, one wat. Which we saw yesterday. This is another one.

L: This one’s only tiny. It hardly counts. It’s got pictures in.

In a clearing is a garden, pretty with bougainvillea, in which stands a small plain temple and a couple of cottages. Orange robes hang drying from windowsills. Under a tree, two young monks are playing with a puppy. Inside the temple they find the uneven walls painted with dramatic scenes: a great gale, a fierce battle, and a desperate shipwreck complete with sharks.

As they are leaving, two small children approach, carrying torches. They lead the way along a track in the woods, up a steep flight of stone steps, and into a cave. Here they helpfully wave their torches at a Buddha shrine, a stalactite, and what might or might not be a bat. D duly thanks them and pays them for their guiding service. They take the money and look at him, disappointed. L adds a boiled sweet each to their takings and they grin happily and scamper off.

Further along the woodland trail they come across another long flight of steps. At the top two crumbling stupas pierce the skyline, and beyond is another rural temple, a garden, a cottage, and wonderful views of the Mekong below. Monks are busy building something – an extension perhaps, guided by a skeletally thin old man. A middle-aged man sits in front of the temple speaking to a tourist seeking words of wisdom.

Tourist: So, tell me, how long have you been a monk?

Monk: Ten days. I’m just taking a few weeks away from my business.

The trail becomes wider and turns concrete as they enter the village of Ban Xieng Maen. Bamboo, wood and palm leaf dwellings line the track, single rooms with corrugated iron roofs and satellite dishes. Chickens scratch in the dust, dogs roam busily and cheerful children wave in greeting.

L: (waving) Sabaidee!

Children: Sabaidee! Hello falang!

The village has a smart well-funded temple, several small shops and, at the far end, where the road again widens but returns to beaten earth, a food market. Fruit and vegetables are displayed under ramshackle shelters, and dishes are being freshly cooked on barbecues and in large cauldrons.

The road descends to the river where a ferry is arriving. Two tuk-tuk drivers are waiting for customers, dozing in hammocks slung in the back. The rusty twin-hulled barge reaches the shore. It has ramps protruding each side like wings. An SUV and cluster of mopeds rattle over the ramp and off, and another cluster rattle on. Garden chairs and benches are set around the edges and at each prow is a small shrine, with a food offering wrapped in banana leaves and marigolds.

D: Stop staring! He’s half your age!

L can’t take her eyes off the skipper.

L: It’s not him. It’s his hat. He’s got the most beautiful hat.

D: I’m not looking. We can’t both stare. You stop looking so that I can. We’ll take it in turns.

D takes a look at the young man in a burgundy woollen hat with knitted brim and large sequinned flower.

D: OK, you’re right. It is a splendid hat.

***

Ock Pop Tok produces some of Laos’s most beautiful silk-woven textiles. Their Living Crafts Centre in Luang Prabang is also a perfect spot for lunch by the river. Within the grounds they run weaving courses and explain the process from start to finish.

L: Did you know the silkworm makes a cocoon from one continuous line of silk thread, so it can turn itself into a moth?

D: I did not.

L: Or that the silk gets boiled to make it soft?

D: Nope.

L: Or that the most amazingly vivid colours can be made with natural dyes using stuff like leaves, bark, roots, rocks and rusty nails?

D: Not even.

L: Or that indigo dye is sort of alive – with bacteria I think – and you need to put chillis on the lid to keep the spirits from coming and spoiling it?

D: I need my lunch now.

***

Dinner at Tamarind Restaurant, Luang Prabang:

Dried bamboo nibbles

Lao-lao rice whisky flavoured with tamarind, honey and lime

Pumpkin and mushroom soup with mint and lemongrass

Lao herby sausages

Dried crispy buffalo skin

Dried crispy river weed with sesame seeds

Sticky rice to roll into little balls in your fingers and dip into sauces of tomato, chilli and smoked aubergine